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Description
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Everyone knew it: in this economy, the occult was the way to go. Every high-rise in Inglemouth owed its existence to an eldritch abomination. R & D might as well have stood for Ritual and Demonology. Fornax was leading the way in the occult revolution, literally and figuratively at the cutting edge when it came to human sacrifice. They were dealing with devils most other organisations didn't even know existed. Of course, you couldn't contact an omelette from another dimension without risking the gruesome death of several eggs.
Melusine Deacon had the Occult Operations Projection Stats report in hand, and the numbers for Q2 were going to have to be revised downwards. A bloodbath was always accounted for in the risk assessment, but it wasn't something that just happened by accident these days, especially during what was scheduled to be a standard infernal contract negotiation.
Arcane Investigators (The word 'forensic' implied the investigation would submit its findings to an open forum, which was most certainly not the case here) confirmed the summoning had taken place according to protocol, but the Ritual Administration team had been assaulted by (variously) an edged weapon, a handgun, a surprisingly sharp clipboard, and a potted plant. Furthermore, the evidence suggested Uttrellotung, Ba'al of the Creeping Dunes, had then been beheaded by his own escape portal.
Through a smashed window (inwards, despite being located on the eighteenth floor), Melusine scowled at the headquarters of the Occult Regulation Bureau. She had the ORB in her pocket. Why then, did it look so much like they were sabotaging her department?
She dialled her phone – she had some yelling to do.
–
The amber moon hung low over the ocean, breathing out a warm sea breeze. Scrimshaw bay was beautiful in a haunting kind of way, and Angus Hayes would have rather been anywhere else. When he'd joined the ORB, he'd imagined himself in a tuxedo, dodging gunfire in a villain's flaming volcano base, or perhaps getting to put all his weapons training to use on some zombies. He'd never once pictured himself taking down his greatest hero.
As he neared the bar, his comms lens fritzed out. The briefing had mentioned this might happen – it was a Siren bar and chaff glamours were ten a penny. He still had his earpiece. Discarding the lens, he entered the building, trying to look casual while scoping the place out. Three Huldra and a couple of Huldrekrall were playing cards and sharing a pitcher of something green. A heap of driftwood was chatting congenially with a gecko woman while noodling on the ukelele. Behind the taps, a Siren briefly met his eyes. Sitting up at the bar, a swamp monster in a gilet hunched over his pint.
In the shadowy corner, also hunched over at the bar, wearing a battered old longcoat (the bullet holes might have been new) and an unkempt beard, was the target. Almost unrecognisable, if not for the fact he was the only human in there.
Target acquired, whispered Angus into his throat mic.
Copy that, Tyr One, came the reply. Overwatch established. There were five more members of Tyr Squad surrounding the building, and if he lost the element of surprise, his job was to draw the target out into the open. He hoped it wouldn't come to that. The whole thing left a bad taste in his mouth. This man, more than any other, deserved a fair fight.
He ordered a drink while he waited for the green light, doing his best to blend in.
“Angus Hayes!” called the target.
Angus spun around instantly, gun in hand, until it wasn't, spinning across the room instead thanks to an expertly thrown beer mat. Angus reached for his back-up pistol, but was shoved back onto his seat by the driftwood heap. The siren behind the bar started singing nervously. Dirk approached with his hands up.
“You remembered my name,” said Angus.
“Of course I did,” said Dirk, “You were on my team for the Savoy affair.”
“With the Black Nail Cult? You went in single-handed, we barely did anything.”
“Not true, I saw you go to work when those bloody Aztec mummies were coming out of the walls. They were a league above your garden-variety zombies. You're good, kid.”
The Dirk that Angus remembered had invariably sported sharp suits and sharper haircuts. The worn-out coat and shaggy hair he had now made him seem human in a way Angus had never expected.
“Why'd you switch sides?” asked Angus, emboldened.
“The fact that you think we constitute a 'side' is a big part of the problem,” said Dirk, indicating the room around them, and parahumans in general by extension. “But mainly I think it's because ORB cloned me without my consent. I think that tops the list.”
“What?”
“Tip of the iceberg, kid. The question you should really ask is what it would take for you to switch. Do you recall much about the Bloody Mary case?”
Angus kept quiet, not least because he was mic'd up. He had a bad feeling about this.
“Would it surprise you to learn that she was innocent? She's frozen in trapsilver right now, getting tapped for prophecies at Fornax. You did that."
“Bullshit.”
“Absolutely it was. They played you. But now you know. Now you get the choice to make it right.”
Angus stayed silent again. Then he ripped off the throat mic. He'd had his misgivings already, but hearing it from Dirk was like having his eyes opened for the first time. He couldn't for the life of him figure out how he hadn't seen it earlier. Two conflicting memories of Mary being pulled from her mirror jostled for position, one all fangs and dripping scarlet, the other screaming and scared out of her wits.
He realised the siren, who had just finished singing, had been singing in reverse. An un-glamour. He felt like the roof had been ripped off the universe.
“There are two guns on every entrance,” he said, shaking off the conditioning.
“No,” said Dirk, removing his earpiece, “there's not.”
A swarm of pixies entered the room through a vent. There was a loud 'clonk' from the other side of the grating, followed by another, and then the pixies left again, circling the building and buzzing in through the front door toting a selection of automatic rifles.
“We're taking down the ORB,” said Dirk. “You in?”
“Yeah,” said Angus, slinging a rifle over his shoulder, counting the wrongs he had to right. “Yeah, I'm in.”

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

Everyone knew it: in this economy, the occult was the way to go. Every high-rise in Inglemouth owed its existence to an eldritch abomination. R & D might as well have stood for Ritual and Demonology. Fornax was leading the way in the occult revolution, literally and figuratively at the cutting edge when it came to human sacrifice. They were dealing with devils most other organisations didn't even know existed. Of course, you couldn't contact an omelette from another dimension without risking the gruesome death of several eggs.
Melusine Deacon had the Occult Operations Projection Stats report in hand, and the numbers for Q2 were going to have to be revised downwards. A bloodbath was always accounted for in the risk assessment, but it wasn't something that just happened by accident these days, especially during what was scheduled to be a standard infernal contract negotiation.
Arcane Investigators (The word 'forensic' implied the investigation would submit its findings to an open forum, which was most certainly not the case here) confirmed the summoning had taken place according to protocol, but the Ritual Administration team had been assaulted by (variously) an edged weapon, a handgun, a surprisingly sharp clipboard, and a potted plant. Furthermore, the evidence suggested Uttrellotung, Ba'al of the Creeping Dunes, had then been beheaded by his own escape portal.
Through a smashed window (inwards, despite being located on the eighteenth floor), Melusine scowled at the headquarters of the Occult Regulation Bureau. She had the ORB in her pocket. Why then, did it look so much like they were sabotaging her department?
She dialled her phone – she had some yelling to do.
–
The amber moon hung low over the ocean, breathing out a warm sea breeze. Scrimshaw bay was beautiful in a haunting kind of way, and Angus Hayes would have rather been anywhere else. When he'd joined the ORB, he'd imagined himself in a tuxedo, dodging gunfire in a villain's flaming volcano base, or perhaps getting to put all his weapons training to use on some zombies. He'd never once pictured himself taking down his greatest hero.
As he neared the bar, his comms lens fritzed out. The briefing had mentioned this might happen – it was a Siren bar and chaff glamours were ten a penny. He still had his earpiece. Discarding the lens, he entered the building, trying to look casual while scoping the place out. Three Huldra and a couple of Huldrekrall were playing cards and sharing a pitcher of something green. A heap of driftwood was chatting congenially with a gecko woman while noodling on the ukelele. Behind the taps, a Siren briefly met his eyes. Sitting up at the bar, a swamp monster in a gilet hunched over his pint.
In the shadowy corner, also hunched over at the bar, wearing a battered old longcoat (the bullet holes might have been new) and an unkempt beard, was the target. Almost unrecognisable, if not for the fact he was the only human in there.
Target acquired, whispered Angus into his throat mic.
Copy that, Tyr One, came the reply. Overwatch established. There were five more members of Tyr Squad surrounding the building, and if he lost the element of surprise, his job was to draw the target out into the open. He hoped it wouldn't come to that. The whole thing left a bad taste in his mouth. This man, more than any other, deserved a fair fight.
He ordered a drink while he waited for the green light, doing his best to blend in.
“Angus Hayes!” called the target.
Angus spun around instantly, gun in hand, until it wasn't, spinning across the room instead thanks to an expertly thrown beer mat. Angus reached for his back-up pistol, but was shoved back onto his seat by the driftwood heap. The siren behind the bar started singing nervously. Dirk approached with his hands up.
“You remembered my name,” said Angus.
“Of course I did,” said Dirk, “You were on my team for the Savoy affair.”
“With the Black Nail Cult? You went in single-handed, we barely did anything.”
“Not true, I saw you go to work when those bloody Aztec mummies were coming out of the walls. They were a league above your garden-variety zombies. You're good, kid.”
The Dirk that Angus remembered had invariably sported sharp suits and sharper haircuts. The worn-out coat and shaggy hair he had now made him seem human in a way Angus had never expected.
“Why'd you switch sides?” asked Angus, emboldened.
“The fact that you think we constitute a 'side' is a big part of the problem,” said Dirk, indicating the room around them, and parahumans in general by extension. “But mainly I think it's because ORB cloned me without my consent. I think that tops the list.”
“What?”
“Tip of the iceberg, kid. The question you should really ask is what it would take for you to switch. Do you recall much about the Bloody Mary case?”
Angus kept quiet, not least because he was mic'd up. He had a bad feeling about this.
“Would it surprise you to learn that she was innocent? She's frozen in trapsilver right now, getting tapped for prophecies at Fornax. You did that."
“Bullshit.”
“Absolutely it was. They played you. But now you know. Now you get the choice to make it right.”
Angus stayed silent again. Then he ripped off the throat mic. He'd had his misgivings already, but hearing it from Dirk was like having his eyes opened for the first time. He couldn't for the life of him figure out how he hadn't seen it earlier. Two conflicting memories of Mary being pulled from her mirror jostled for position, one all fangs and dripping scarlet, the other screaming and scared out of her wits.
He realised the siren, who had just finished singing, had been singing in reverse. An un-glamour. He felt like the roof had been ripped off the universe.
“There are two guns on every entrance,” he said, shaking off the conditioning.
“No,” said Dirk, removing his earpiece, “there's not.”
A swarm of pixies entered the room through a vent. There was a loud 'clonk' from the other side of the grating, followed by another, and then the pixies left again, circling the building and buzzing in through the front door toting a selection of automatic rifles.
“We're taking down the ORB,” said Dirk. “You in?”
“Yeah,” said Angus, slinging a rifle over his shoulder, counting the wrongs he had to right. “Yeah, I'm in.”